38 American Hustle
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18th February 1997 (Tuesday)
Al Pacino (POV)
"-want to help you Ricky… So let me."
C'mon buddy, you've taken the first step, just walk over to the other side. I know you can do it!
His face blanks out in introspection as I wait for him to reciprocate.
A few seconds later, his face undergoes a radical change, as in… bloody hell.
He finally fuckin' dropped his guard huh? 'Bout time I say! His face, previously eerily blank, was now a veritable cocktail of feelings and emotions.
"You ready to talk now?" I ask, my tone softer than ever before as I reach out to him.
He nodded slowly, his eyes filling with unshed tears, "... Yeah. C-can I order some room service? I jus- I haven't had lunch and…"
"... You know what? I'm in the mood for some seafood. A lobster thermidor, and fried shrimp for me. And tell 'em to send up a bottle of Laurent Perrier. Pro tip, lobster and champagne pair up really well."
…
"So… would you like to do the honors now?" I ask, as I dip the lobster in butter.
He looked up and nodded slowly, "Al, you know that I'm a… genius right? And I swear I'm not bragging here, just stating a fact?"
"I guess. I mean, I met you when you were 16, and you had already gotten your bachelor's… and then your dad told me you aced high school when you were 13. You're clearly smart."
He shook his head slightly, a tired smirk visible on his face as he replied, "Al, please… oh please disregard any element of boastfulness you might hear in my next few words… I assure I'll be speaking nothing but facts."
I nodded as he continued, "I'm not, just your run of the mill genius. I'm not a savant, I don't have some kinda talent in 'one' particular field that qualifies me as a genius… I can undertake any perceivable task known to mankind, and execute it to perfection. When I was a kid, my increased intellect was visible through the lens of my academic achievements… but that's the thing. I'm not just book smart. Fun little anecdote here… my father was watching soccer on telly, I was barely 12 back then. He saw this complex maneuver done by a player… a rainbow, followed by a volley into the right corner of the goalpost from outside of the box… he started dancing around like a monkey, cheering, screaming, hooting and shit. I got tired of the noise and told him, it wasn't a big deal… I could probably do the same given enough practice and oh, oh how he lost his shit… it was truly a sight to see."
"He sat me down and told me that sports are different from books, and you have to train your body and your mind for years to accomplish that feat, let alone recreate it. I told him that I'll not only recreate the magic of it, but I'll do it 5 times in a row… and I'll have it done by the time he gets home from the office next day."
And with that little cliffhanger, he shifted his focus to his Chinese, gulping down one serving of noodles after another with chopsticks…
"Well? What happened next?!" I said, finally having lost my patience.
He simply deadpanned before saying, "There's no twist in this story Al. No moral lessons about humility here. It took me 2 hours of practice, and I not only recreated the move, but went on to spawn a series of spin-offs, each crazier than the last. What's the lesson learned, you ask? Never. Underestimate. My genius. A glance at this room, and I can uncover exactly what the last guest did by using inductive reasoning. I remember every frame of my life as I've lived it, every single sound as if I heard it the first time, every single texture I've ever touched with any given body part, any smell that has ever assaulted my nose… I input more information per minute than most people do per hour."
…
"Al?" He said, snapping his fingers in my face.
"You listening?"
"Go on. How does this tie into your…"
"Deep-seated psychological trauma?"
"Yes… whatever the hell that is."
…
"Al, I wasn't always a genius. I know, because I examined every single childhood memory of mine to draw a timeline of sorts. I was a normal, happy-going kid, my brain was not remotely special… It all changed, the day… she died. I have examined my memories of that day hundreds of times. My change… it was not gradual. The gist of it is that… she died. I went to sleep, not realizing what happened and then when I woke up the next day… I saw the world differently. I could think, I could feel, I could… 'See'. And then all of a sudden, my dad lifted me and ran to a car. Next thing I knew we were in the hospital, and I saw a tarp… covering her body. In the years following… I thought back to that day again and again… just replaying the two memories one after the another… the first time I could… 'Think', and then the time I saw my mom covered in a tarp."
As he continued narrating, the atmosphere grew more and more somber, as our food lay forgotten to the side.
"I got my… abilities, the day my mom died. I know… that the ensuing train of thought was illogical to its very core. But, was it perchance… some kind of divine transaction? Did God grant me the abilities, only to take something far more valuable the same fucking day? Or was the Universe just playing a cosmic joke on me? Back then in the confines of my room, I tried praying to every single God I ever found the mention of in books I read. Thousands in number… in the vain hope that one of them talks back to me… verifies my suspicions. I remember my mom wishing for me to grow up to be a 'smart, handsome man'... did she make a deal with the devil or somethin'?"
He concluded, a single drop of tear streaming down his cheek, as he wiped it off with the sleeve of his shirt right before it fell.
And after hearing that heart-breaking story, I realized exactly what he needed.
And so I stood up and walked around the table. Seeing me stand up, he stood up as well, his face adopting a questioning look, "Wh-what? D-did I s-say somethin'? Al?"
I walked up to him, before looking deep into his vulnerable eyes.
"It's not your fault son… it's not." I said, shaking my head.
Taken aback, he murmured, "Yeah I- I know that."
"Look at me. In my eyes."
He looks up, only to hear, "It's not your fault."
"No-I know that Al, I'm not 'stupid'." He emphasizes, slipping back into old habits.
I remain steadfast. "It's not your fault."
"I know." He grinned half-heartedly, squaring his shoulder slightly, as he tried to do anything but meet my gaze.
"It's not your fault son… it never was."
"Shut up Al! Jus- please stop." He whispered softly.
"It's not your fault Ricky… don't blame yourself."
"I-I know but-" The words barely made it into my ears as I leaned it… embracing his shaking frame.
"It's not your fault." I said, rubbing his back, as his sobs became louder… before I felt him hug back, as he finally collapsed into my arms.
"It's not your fault." I muttered one last time, just to drive it in.
"I KNOW! I- I know Al!" He cried out, his arms squeezing the living hell out of me, as he whimpered.
We stayed like that for several minutes, as I waited for him to settle down, and gain his bearings again, hoping it would be soon.
It wasn't.
His cries did not subside until a half an hour later, after which he just murmured a thanks, before rushing out the door, snatching his chinese takeout in the process.
I don't know whether he got his head screwed on right… I'm not a therapist after all. But if there's one thing I can say for sure… it's that the 'thanks' he muttered before rushing out, had more raw emotion behind it, than anything else I had even seen or heard from him.
…
…
19th February 1997 (Wednesday)
Daryl Schmidt (POV)
… 'Will' crashes down on Sean's shoulders, sobbing heavily, heaving, as a singular vein is visible on the arm around 'Sean'.
"My God! I'm so sorry! My God!" 'Will' cried out, tears streaming down his face, dropping from his cheekbones onto Sean's sweater as they squeezed the life out of each other.
The sobbing continued for a good few seconds before I yelled, "CUT!"
But Ricky… was in his own zone it seemed, either not hearing the 'Cut', or just not caring about it, as he continued hugging Al for all that he's worth.
He whispered faintly, "Thank you." repeatedly, all the while Pacino just took it, breathing heavily as his voice nearly cracked.
Damn… something definitely took place last night.
I discreetly gave orders to the stagehands to dismantle the set, as we prepared to wrap up production for the day.
A few seconds later, "Daryl! You talked with Zazie yet? How's the score coming up?"
"Oh, almost done Ricky, the raw recordings will be done by Friday latest, then we can commence post-production."
"Perfect. Also, what about the recording studio? Did you-"
"Done. We have a room for a week, you take your time recording the songs."
"Awesome. That's… awesome buddy." He nodded.
"So Ricky… about the Cannes-"
"Nope, no way in hell are we making it. And you know what? Contact dear old dad will you? Ask him to get me a list of the best sound mixers and editors we can get on short notice."
What in the-
"Wait, hold on. Ricky I thought- you said you were gonna handle the post-production by yourself! We all said it was insanity, but you went on and on about your 'perfect vision' and whatnot… And now all of a sudden, you wanna delegate?" I ask, barely believing the sudden change he underwent over the course of a single day.
Ricky Stirling (POV)
Daryl… oh dear Daryl. Now how in the fuck do I justify my sudden change in mindset that was the result of me realizing there's more to life than perfection? That, being obsessed with my legacy, and thereby micromanaging every single aspect of production is a long term recipe for disaster that'll blur the line between intelligence and indulgence later on?
Wait… I'm still the guy calling the shots here. I don't have to justify shit to anyone!
But as I look into Daryl's eyes, and remember the instances in the past 2 months, where he helped me out considerably… his eagerness to learn from me…
Damn it. I'm gonna have to stop being snarky to him now don't I?
"Daryl… let's just say I went through a surreal experience yesterday, that changed me for the better. And after some much needed introspection, I realized you all were… right. To a tiny extent, but right nevertheless. So yeah, I'm still editing the footage myself, but I won't do it alone. I'll need a team, and someone who understands the way I work, the way I do things… the emphasis I put on portraying the right emotions from the right angle… Daryl, will you be my assistant editor?" I ask, a warm feeling spreading through my chest, as his face lights up.
"YES! YES! Oh HELL YEAH! Wait, does this mean… I'll receive credit?"
"Yep, and a handsome remuneration if I have got anything to say about it. Now, we don't have a lot of time, and I want to film the Chuckie scene today itself, so we gotta get going. You take care of the set, I'll talk with the boys, and then we make a trip to the observatory. You in?"
"Yes… to the observatory. I'll wrap up things here, and set 'em up at the location. It'll take a couple of hours but yeah, I'll do it."
"Fantastic. Great work Daryl, I'm proud of you. No really, I am, it's… not a joke." I reassure him, as the suspicion from his visage drains away, making way for content, and joy.
*Sigh*
I have really been using my CHA all wrong haven't I? Oh, how things would've been vastly different if I had actually been polite to people all my life, than simply pretending.
But I guess, that's why second chances exist. And now that I've got mine, there's no way in hell I'm screwing this up… no matter what anyone says.
I might be the Gamer, but it's about time I stop treating this world like a fucking game and take things seriously.
